


arrested for moustache crimes

by petalprose



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1970s, Bickering, Crowley's Moustache (Good Omens), Fluff without Plot, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25631227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petalprose/pseuds/petalprose
Summary: “Aziraphale,” Crowley says. He watches Aziraphale’s gaze track his upper lip with a sort of horrified fascination. They’re on opposite ends of the couch, a plastic, unassuming tube between them both. If the angel stays frozen for much longer, they’ll miss the dinner reservation he made. “Aziraphale,” says Crowley, grave and serious. “Aziraphale. I need you to listen to me. Are you listening to me?”“I most certainly amnot,” Aziraphale squawks, suddenly reanimated, and rears backward. “Get that goo away from me! Infernal substance! Foul device! Perpetrator of evils untold!”-Crowley has discovered the joys of moustache wax.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30
Collections: Stayin' Julive - The Tony Month Collection





	arrested for moustache crimes

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says. He watches Aziraphale’s gaze track his upper lip with a sort of horrified fascination. They’re on opposite ends of the couch, a plastic, unassuming tube between them both. If the angel stays frozen for much longer, they’ll miss the dinner reservation he made. “Aziraphale,” says Crowley, grave and serious. “Aziraphale. I need you to listen to me. Are you listening to me?”

“I most certainly am _not,”_ Aziraphale squawks, suddenly reanimated, and rears backward. “Get that goo away from me! Infernal substance! Foul device! Perpetrator of evils untold!”

Crowley hasn’t even opened the tube of moustache wax yet. In a moment of unprecedented hypocrisy, he thinks that Aziraphale is being just the slightest bit overdramatic about this. He won’t lie and say it isn’t amusing him, though.

“Come on,” cajoles Crowley. “Just give me, eh, what, five minutes to style it—“

“Style it, _really?_ ”

“What?” Crowley lifts the moustache comb in the air, gestures at Aziraphale with it. “’s hardly any different from your manicures and your clothes, is it?”

“It’s on your face.”

“What’s my face got to do with it? What’s wrong with my face?”

“Nothing, dear,” says Aziraphale, lying through his angelic teeth. _Bar the moustache and your plans for it,_ he thinks loudly. “I’m only suggesting—“

“Aziraphale,” says Crowley, already unscrewing the cap of the tube, “I haven’t got a mirror, so you’ll tell me if I’ve gotten it somewhere it isn’t supposed to be, will you—“

“You don’t quite need to _style it,_ do you?”

“If I want to keep it from getting into my mouth as I’m eating,” says Crowley patiently, “If I want to keep it out of the wine—“

“But the wax, Crowley,” starts Aziraphale, immediately afterwards realizing he hasn’t actually got an argument. He gives a defeated sigh. “I suppose it can’t be helped, if you’re so set on it,” he relents. Far be it from him to deny Crowley a bit of fun, after all; the demon does look truly delighted with his latest foray into human fashion.

“Good to be on the same page,” says Crowley, before picking up the tube and dropping it in Aziraphale’s lap.

Aziraphale blinks. Opens his mouth to say something. Looks down at the offending tube of moustache max then back up at Crowley, who is now idly combing his moustache. “And what exactly am I meant to do with this?”

“You style it,” says Crowley, simply, as though what he’s just suggested isn’t absolutely absurd. “Make you feel better about having to be seen with me.”

Aziraphale cycles through about twelve different responses before settling on, “What?”

They go back and forth like this for a while. The tube of wax is repeatedly moved between the both of them before Aziraphale, after checking the time, has enough and opens it himself.

Crowley holds as still as he physically can and then some as Aziraphale shuffles closer, hands already raised. “I’ll have you know I could very easily give you an unflattering style. I could have it point to the sky. I could form a hoop.”

“Ah, but then you’ll have to go through dinner knowing you’re the reason why everyone will be staring at my face.”

“ _Incorrigible,”_ mutters Aziraphale, with no real bite. “Simply unbelievable.”

That night, Crowley goes to dinner with his moustache styled very peculiarly, though he is hardly the only victim of the wax. Across from him, sitting prim and proper and eating with as much decorum as he can possibly muster is Aziraphale, just as unapologetic about what he’s done as Crowley is.

Neither mentions the fact that the moustache is in little curls, or that Aziraphale's hair has two tufts sticking straight out.

**Author's Note:**

> literally minutes before midnight here


End file.
